28th January, 1889 — The Abandoned House
He'd left the caverns just after dusk, and slunk down to the Slums to quietly use a fireplace, a pinch of Floo Powder in his pocket. He'd come out in Knockturn, and walked from there. London was slick with rain, passers-by hastening by with umbrellas or without, darting in and out from under eaves with scant regard for him. Ishmael, on the other hand, took his time. He wasn't hungry. Wasn't in a hurry. Wasn't sure he wanted to get to the house, and to the others.
He hadn't been there as often as usual, and had been less friendly when he was. Monty was to blame for both facts, and must be aware. They hadn't been strangers to quarrelling before - how could they have been, with Monty an insufferable shit on a good day? - but most of their fights fell to the wayside in their own time, and making up was always a high of its own. That was what Ishmael was worried about, this time round. Back in autumn, that had been too close a call. Not just drinking from Monty (though Ishmael refused to do that again), but the possibility of... shackling himself to a passing emotion. Doing - saying - something stupid, something he would inevitably regret.
And if Monty even felt a shred of the same way, Ishmael couldn't stand for it. His tactics against this had been callous attempts to quash the possibility, hoping that the more excruciatingly intolerable he was, the sooner Monty would realise his error, and the sooner Ishmael could get over his. If he had been more determined, he would have cut all ties already and moved on, not have come back time and time again, but that... was harder than it sounded.
He let himself in to the house and listened for any of the others. He'd been more in contact with the other two than Monty, recently, so it was an unpleasant shock to turn into the front room and find Monty there, alone.
He fashioned his expression into one of vague disinterest.
"I heard there's a job," Ishmael said, in explanation.
He hadn't been there as often as usual, and had been less friendly when he was. Monty was to blame for both facts, and must be aware. They hadn't been strangers to quarrelling before - how could they have been, with Monty an insufferable shit on a good day? - but most of their fights fell to the wayside in their own time, and making up was always a high of its own. That was what Ishmael was worried about, this time round. Back in autumn, that had been too close a call. Not just drinking from Monty (though Ishmael refused to do that again), but the possibility of... shackling himself to a passing emotion. Doing - saying - something stupid, something he would inevitably regret.
And if Monty even felt a shred of the same way, Ishmael couldn't stand for it. His tactics against this had been callous attempts to quash the possibility, hoping that the more excruciatingly intolerable he was, the sooner Monty would realise his error, and the sooner Ishmael could get over his. If he had been more determined, he would have cut all ties already and moved on, not have come back time and time again, but that... was harder than it sounded.
He let himself in to the house and listened for any of the others. He'd been more in contact with the other two than Monty, recently, so it was an unpleasant shock to turn into the front room and find Monty there, alone.
He fashioned his expression into one of vague disinterest.
"I heard there's a job," Ishmael said, in explanation.
